Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (13 page)

“Please say you can stop by,” the woman said. “We have a lot to tell you.”

I bet,
I thought grimly.
And I have a thing or two to tell you.

I turned back to Pam. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

“That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “All I was going to do was complain about Denise, and I’m sure you get enough of that without me.”

“Even the most tolerant of people have their breaking points,” I said. “And though I understand how you feel about Denise, I hope you’ll consider rejoining the Friends someday.”

Pam laughed. “Not as long as
she’s
there, but you’re a sweetie for trying. Anytime you want morning coffee, just let me know and I’ll bring an extra mug onto the porch.”

She ducked back inside to the warmth of her store, and I hurried the three blocks to my new destination.

By the time I burst in the front door of the Lakeview Art Gallery, I’d built up a nice head of steaming outrage. I shut the door firmly behind me and faced my
good friends Barb and Russell McCade with my hands on my hips and my chin up. Behind them was a middle-aged woman I assumed was the new gallery manager, but introductions would have to wait.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, glaring at the smiling McCades. They were standing next to a large canvas, the back of which was to me. Though I was excited to see the painting, I didn’t move. There were things that needed to be said.

I kept glaring. “You promised you’d be gone before the first snowfall. You took solemn vows that you’d be in Arizona before there was any danger of driving on snowy roads. You promised me—”

Russell McCade, known to most as Cade, an internationally famous artist, grinned and turned the painting around. His left hand lost its grip, but Barb caught the painting before it hit the floor. “What do you think?” Cade asked. “Not bad for an old man still recovering from a stroke, yes?”

Oh, yes.
I drank in the glorious colors, the uneven brushstrokes, the shapes and images and impressions taking me straight back to the end of summer, to dark blue evenings on the lake, to cool air and the knowledge that winter was coming. It was powerful and beautiful and haunting, and I didn’t want to look away.

“Sentimental schlock,” Cade said, quoting one of his few critics.

“But well-done sentimental schlock,” Barb added, quoting one of his thousands of supporters.

“I couldn’t finish this painting in Arizona,” Cade said. “I had to work on it here, and I couldn’t leave until it was done.”

He had a point, and a good one at that. It wouldn’t have been easy for him to visualize the greens and
blues of summer in northern lower Michigan in the middle of the reds and browns of southern Arizona. Still, there had been a promise made, and I wasn’t letting them off the hook that easily.

“You promised,” I said, trying not to sound like an eight-year-old. “You said—both of you said—that you’d leave before snow, and if you didn’t, you’d call me instead of driving yourselves anywhere. It snowed ten inches barely a week ago, and did I get a phone call? No.”

I crossed my arms and waited for their answer. It wasn’t long in coming, and it was about what I’d expected.

Cade laughed, and Barb made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

“My dear Minnie,” Cade said. “I know you’ve taken a proprietary interest in my health since you and your bookmobile rushed me to the hospital, and there is no question that your rapid response is what helped me recover from the stroke so quickly, but Barb and I aren’t exactly elderly. Neither one of us is even sixty.”

Barb took her husband’s hand. “Besides, we didn’t drive anywhere while there was snow on the roads. We just stayed home. I read some of those wonderful books you’ve recommended, and Cade finished his painting.” She nodded at the canvas.

“Plus,” Cade said, “our bags are packed and we’re headed for the airport the moment we leave here.”

I gave a mock sigh. “So you’re on the way out of town?”

“Decidedly,” Cade said, smiling a little.

I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. Last summer the McCades and I had become acquainted over Cade’s hospital bed, and it had solidified into a permanent
friendship over the use of words that started with the letter
D
. To have him pull one out now was a top-notch use.

“You’re incorrigible,” I said.

“Are we doing
I
words?” Barb asked. “Because I’ve always wanted to use the word ‘irrefragable’ in a sentence.”

“You just did,” Cade said. He smartly stepped out of the way of her elbow and smiled at me. “How is that fuzzy feline of yours?” Cade and Eddie had become good friends over the past few months, but I finally had to forbid Cade from bringing him any more treats or cat toys until next spring. Even Eddie could only eat and play so much.

“Fuzzier than ever,” I assured him.

“You can expect the portrait by Valentine’s Day,” Cade said. “I’ll have it crated and freighted direct to you.”

“Oh, wow, you don’t have to do that. Really, you don’t have to—”

Barb cut into my babbling. “Minnie, dear, hush. We’ve been through this before, and you’re accepting Eddie’s portrait. If you don’t, Cade will paint
you
.”

The threat had been made before and it still sent a shiver of unease down my back.

“Ha,” Cade said. “Look at her face. You’d think I did abstract art with a nasty twist, the way she’s looking.”

“Distraction is in order,” Barb said. “Give her the other news.”

Grinning, Cade rubbed his hands together. “It’s all set, Minnie. The painting the Radles have chosen to donate is scheduled for auction the week after Thanksgiving.”

“It . . . is?” After Cade had been involved in a
murder case last summer, he’d told the parents of the murder victim that he’d donate a painting to a charity of their choice. And even though the victim hadn’t been a patron of the Chilson library, her parents had said her favorite times as a child had been spent in their local library. I hadn’t expected the grieving parents to choose a painting until next year, though. “They’re still willing to donate the money to the library?”

Cade nodded. “Every cent.”

I wanted to thank him, to thank Barb, to thank everyone and everything in the whole wide world, but all I could manage to do was nod.

“Look at her.” Cade nudged his wife. “Now, that’s a face worth painting.”

I tried to smile. Couldn’t quite, thanks to the emotions clogging my throat. “You’re irredeemable,” I managed to say.

“Incurable,” he agreed.

“But not irrefragable,” Barb said.

We all laughed, and if I wiped away a tear or two, the McCades were polite enough to allow the fiction that it was from the laughter.

T
he rest of the weekend flew past with a number of Aunt Frances–directed trips to the grocery store for Thanksgiving preparations, which included a trip to Mary’s Kitchen Port in Traverse City for whole nutmeg (“You want me to go where? For what?” “You heard me. Get going.”) and an attic search for a box of extra pie plates. There were numerous text exchanges with Tucker, ranging from stilted to friendly to warm, and a Sunday-afternoon phone conversation with Kristen during which I listened to her enthuse about the beach conditions and she listened to me talk about grant possibilities.

Monday was such a busy library day that it wasn’t until Tuesday, a bookmobile day, that I had time to wonder whether I really was spending too much time on the bookmobile. Which was high irony, but I wasn’t sure Eddie saw any humor in it. Donna didn’t, either.

She sat with her feet on either side of Eddie’s carrier and pooh-poohed my angst.

“The reason you didn’t hear about Pam’s hissy fit is because you weren’t in the building. You could have been gone for any reason. It didn’t have to be the bookmobile.”

True, but still. “I should have known.”

Donna yawned, stretching. “You really want to know all the goings-on of the Friends? Maybe get a personal monthly update from Denise?”

I blanched at the thought, and Donna laughed. Then we were at our first stop of the day, Moulson Elementary, and things got busy fast.

Moulson was a new stop for us. The school was on the east side of the county, out in the flatter land where potatoes were grown. There were no other bookmobile stops for miles, but it had taken only a single request for me to justify the mileage.

As soon as Donna lowered the steps, a parade of five-year-olds marched out of the building. At the head of the line was Brynn Wilbanks, the little girl who had called with the stop request.

She bounced up the stairs, smiling widely, energy practically oozing out of her skin. “Where’s the bookmobile kitty?” she asked. “I said they’d get to meet Eddie.”

Recognizing that my place in Brynn’s life was secondary to my cat’s by far, I bowed and made a grand wave toward the front, where Eddie was sitting like an Egyptian statue on the console.

It had been for the sake of Brynn, whose leukemia was now in remission, that I’d brought Eddie onto the bookmobile after his first stowaway episode. And it had been for Brynn that I’d just rearranged the bookmobile’s every-other-Tuesday route to make sure she got her fill of Eddie during the school year.

A young man came up the steps, herding the last of the kids aboard. “Hi. I’m Andrew Burrows. Brynn’s teacher.” He had a stocky build and such a complicated arrangement of facial hair that it made me wonder if he
was trying to hide something. He also looked barely looked old enough to have graduated from high school, let alone college.

I introduced myself and Donna. Andrew kept a close watch on his small charges as we talked. I knew there were supposed to be fourteen of them, but it was hard to be sure, since they moved around so much. “You’ll do a quick introduction?” Andrew asked. “About the bookmobile?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll show them—”

I stopped, because Andrew’s polite smile had suddenly turned into an expression of horror. He started to lunge past me. “Brynn! Put him down!”

Before I even turned, I sensed what was happening. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Brynn and Eddie—”

“See, everybody?” Brynn called. She was grasping Eddie around his middle, his front legs draping stage right, his back legs draping stage left. His head was dangling loosely, and the tip of his tail beat the air lightly. “This is my friend, the bookmobile kitty cat. You can come and pet him if you want, but you have to do it one at a time,” she cautioned.

“Brynn,” Andrew said in an anguished voice. “Please put the cat down.”

The little girl looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “Why?”

I grinned. Eddie, who would send me a if-looks-could-kill expression if I so much as gave him one pat more than he wanted, had always allowed Brynn to toss him around like a stuffed animal. But I also didn’t want Mr. Kindergarten Teacher to have a heart attack, so I edged forward around the line of small children that was forming to Brynn’s command.

“Sit up here,” I told her, patting the console, “and
Eddie can sit right next to you. That way you can keep petting him.”

She frowned, obviously considering my statement as a suggestion, then nodded. I took Eddie from her, she jumped up, and I nestled Eddie appropriately.

“This is a good idea.” She patted Eddie between the ears, making his head bounce a little. “Okay,” she said, pointing to the youngster at the head of the line. “You can pet him first.”

I backed away, but not too far away. Eddie had always been beyond tolerant of children, but you never knew, so I made sure I was close by, just in case.

“So that’s Eddie,” Andrew said.

I laughed. “You’ve heard stories?”

“Looks like some of them may even be true,” he said, making me revise my previous judgment of his humor level. “Once we got this date scheduled, Brynn has talked nonstop about Eddie and the bookmobile and all the fun books and games and music, and did I mention Eddie?”

The first few kids in the line had received their allotment of Eddie and the accompanying Eddie hair. As they came back around, I pointed out the picture books, and Donna showed them the music and the board games we’d started lending at the end of the summer. The whole thing was going smoother than if I’d planned it for a month.

“Look at that,” Andrew murmured, nodding at the way the kids were exclaiming over the books they were pulling off the shelves. “They’re excited about reading.”

“The Eddie Effect,” I said, smiling.

“Or is it the Bookmobile Effect?” Andrew gestured at the kids who were still waiting in line.

Only they weren’t just waiting; they were looking at the contents of the shelves, running their hands over the bindings, and pulling books out to take a look. I could already tell that would take forever to straighten up the bookmobile, but the time would be well worth it. An investment of sorts.

“The Bookmobile Effect,” he said again. “Bringing books and the love of reading wherever the road takes you.”

I beamed at him. “Would you mind writing that down in letter form and sending it to my boss? Because I’m still having to justify the expense.”

Andrew looked around. “Yeah, this can’t be cheap, can it? And after what happened the other Saturday . . .” He caught my expression. “Oh. Sorry. You probably didn’t need a reminder of that.”

Didn’t need and didn’t want. I put on a smile and changed the subject, but the gleam had gone out of the day.

*   *   *

That evening, my loving aunt met me at the door and handed me a piece of paper as soon as I released Eddie from the carrier.

“We need a few more things for Thanksgiving,” she said.

I scanned the lengthy list, then turned over the paper and read the other side. “What are fennel seeds?”

She gave me a look. “Do you really want to know?”

Of course I didn’t. I was perfectly happy to be the grocery store–goer, the table setter, and the cleaner-upper. The last thing I wanted was any part of the actual cooking. The one time I’d tried to partake in the annual ritual, back in my graduate school days, when I couldn’t afford the gas to drive home, had been a meal
of overcooked Cornish game hens and undercooked potatoes.

I pointed at the list. “All I want to know is where to find fennel seeds.”

“In with the spices,” she said. “Don’t be too long—I’m making fajitas for dinner and the chicken is almost done marinating.”

After rezipping my coat, I headed back out, thinking for the zillionth time how lucky I was to have Aunt Frances in my life. Someday I’d want to buy my own house, but until I could gather up a nice down payment, there wasn’t any likelihood of that happening.

Standing on the bottom step of the porch, the wood creaking a bit underneath my weight, I read the list one more time. It was long, but none of the items was bulky (except for paper towels) or heavy (except for a can of tomato soup), and, since I’d spent most of the day sitting, I eschewed taking the car and went on foot. Without a doubt, I’d regret the decision before I got halfway back, but I pushed that thought out of my head and started walking.

Just outside the grocery store, however, my fast walk slowed to a slow stroll and then to an amble. Denise Slade was getting out of a car not thirty feet away from me. If I used exquisite timing, I could keep my head down while studying the list and avoid eye contact altogether. After all, the last time I’d seen her, she’d said it was my fault that Roger was dead. Why would I want to open myself up to another round of that? Plus, there was the little matter of Roger’s sister’s lawsuit. I wasn’t sure whether Denise was on board with it, but this was one librarian who really didn’t want to find out.

It was tempting to avoid her. So tempting that I pulled the list out of my pocket and unfolded it. But then my mother’s voice boomed inside my head: “Minnie, don’t let me catch you taking the easy way out.”

Why her voiced boomed, I wasn’t sure, since my mother was a soft-spoken woman who only raised her voice if there was imminent danger of bloodshed. Well, that or if someone happened to mention a dislike of history.

But, once again, Mom was right. Denise was grieving, and grief could make you lash out at people. I should forgive her and do what I could to help.

Even if I don’t want to?

I asked the question of my mom via mental telepathy, which I was pretty sure didn’t work.

Especially then,
came the answer.

I sighed and put the list back into my pocket. “Hey, Denise,” I said. “How are you?”

She jumped. “Oh. Hi, Minnie.”

A long moment of silence went by. Just after it got extremely uncomfortable, I asked, “I heard you were in a car accident. That must have been frightening. I’m so sorry.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

I looked at her. Denise normally talked at a rate a notch faster than the rest of the world, but right now she was speaking as if she were translating in her head. That, in addition to her unusual politeness, indicated that something was seriously wrong. Of course, it could have been her way of dealing with Roger’s death, but this wasn’t carrying the sense of grief.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “You weren’t hurt in that crash, were you?”

“Fine,” she said vaguely. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

My baser self, the part of me that deeply wanted to escape into the store, warred with the part of me that remembered my mother’s admonitions to treat others as we would like to be treated. For years I’d thought she’d meant that people should be nicer to me, but I’d eventually caught on.

I took a step closer. “Just what?”

Denise looked at me, anguish on her face, and the words she’d been holding inside came rushing out.

“It’s that deputy. Wolf-something. He talked to me, said that someone might have been trying to kill me, that someone had done something to my car to make it crash, that you said Roger had my hat when he was killed, that it might have been me who someone wants dead, that Roger . . . that it was me . . . that I should have been the one, not him . . .”

Her sentence dissolved into a racking sob. I stepped close, put my arms around her, and let her hang on to me as she cried and cried and cried.

When her body stopped shaking, I gave her a hard hug and released her. I searched my pockets, came up with a tissue that probably hadn’t been used, and held it out.

She took it and blew her nose. “That deputy detective wanted to know if I had any enemies, if anyone was angry at me. Can you believe it?”

Um.
“What did you tell him?”

She found a dry part of the tissue and blew again. “That anyone who has lived a full life has enemies. Take Shannon Hirsch. She’s hated me for thirty years, ever since I beat her out for the basketball team’s cheerleading squad. You wouldn’t believe the stunts she’s pulled on me since then.”

Denise tried to hand back the tissue, but I shook my head. “Anyone else?”

“I told that deputy I’d think about it.” She dabbed at her nose. “Don Weller is another one. My neighbor. For months he’s done nothing but try to make my life miserable, ever since that fence of his.”

It was a big step from high-school rivalries and neighbor irritations to murder. I knew Don through Rafe—Don taught at the school where Rafe was principal—and couldn’t imagine that cheerful man wanting to kill anyone. Then again, do we ever know what truly motivates another person?

Denise swallowed and took in a few breaths. “If I was the one supposed to die, if Roger died because of me . . .”

I waited, wishing I could help, knowing there wasn’t anything I could do.

“How am I going to tell the kids?” she asked in a whisper, but I had no answer for her. I gave her another hug, told her to call me if she needed anything, and went in to the bright lights of the grocery store.

Inside, I pulled out a small cart and looked back outside.

Denise was still standing on the sidewalk. Just standing and looking at nothing.

“All right, already,” I told my mother, and went out again. “Hey, Denise? Do you have a minute? I could use some help with this grocery list. Aunt Frances made it out for me, and I have no idea where half this stuff is.” I proffered the crumpled sheet of paper.

She wiped her eyes and took the list. “Fennel seeds? You don’t know where fennel seeds are?” She make a clucking noise. “Goodness, you do need help, don’t you? Come on. Did you get a cart? No, not that one, it
has a wobbly wheel. This one will do.” She pushed a cart toward me. “Are you coming or not?”

I gave her a crooked smile. “You bet,” I said.

*   *   *

After I’d dried and put away the last fork from dinner, I hung the dish towel on its wooden rod and went to see what Aunt Frances was doing.

I found her sitting on the end of the couch, her long legs out in front of her, a blanket and a book on her lap. I flopped on the couch across from her and tipped my head to see what she was reading.
The First 20 Minutes,
by Gretchen Reynolds.